Through The Black Gate
by TheKingsofHell
Summary: Abandoned by Lucifer, Nick's spirit remains chained to the corporeal world. He haunts his old home in Pike Creek, lost and alone, until Sarah Mills, a psychopomp working under Death, comes and attempts to coax him in the Light. Unknown to Sarah, that Light is not of Heaven, but the red depths of Hell. ON HIATUS
1. Prologue

Prologue

The last thing he could remember was the sensation of being pushed into the back of his own mind. Through a haze of actions he watched his body perform, but his mind protested, months passed. Then the single word, spoken by the tall young man with absolute determination, "Yes." and it was over.

Lucifer had left him.

For awhile, he lay on the floor in the derelict hovel somewhere in the middle of Detroit, his body wracked with pain. His face burned, as did his lungs as he coughed up copious amounts of blood. When he spied the pair of polished black shoes cross into his field of vision, he reached weakly for them, gasping for help.

"It's time to go, Nick," a somber voice said. "Your struggle is at an end."

"Help me..."

"I am, Nick. Take my hand." An aged white hand appeared close to his face, the fingers slender and almost inhumanly long. There was something cold about that hand, and Nick withdrew his own. The offered hand lingered a moment more, then the fingers curled into the palm, and disappeared from view. "If you remain here, it will not end well for you."

"I know where I'm going," Nick managed, swallowing hard. "I don't deserve it...!"

"That is not for you to decide, Nick," the voice informed him calmly. "It's not even for me to decide. I am doing you the honor of coming to you myself. Do you truly wish to deny me?"

"Why? What makes you so damn special?" Nick spat out bitterly, the pain in his gut rolling in agonising waves. The voice sighed and the feet shifted. A thin man crouched to look into Nick's face. His eyes were human in appearance, but there lurked something very old behind them. Nick instinctively tried to pull away. "I know you," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "Can't you do something? I don't want to die."

"Your body is shutting down; it won't be long now," Death replied. "You can either lay there until it happens - and it will happen very, very painfully and last a dreadfully long time - or you can take my hand and accept your fate for the decisions you have made."

"He promised me revenge!" Nick cried. Death sighed.

"Why must I be the one to explain these things to you people?" he asked of the air. "Surely you can't have expected to be welcomed upstairs after housing the very thing trying to bring it down."

"I've done nothing wrong!" Nick insisted, his words swallowed by another violent coughing fit. Death waited patiently for him to regain his breath. It was coming in wheezes now and he could feel his legs going numb. "I'm not going down there. I can't. _They're_ not there. I won't go where I won't be able to see them again."

"You refer to your family?" Death inquired in a way that suggested he already knew the answer. "Yes, they're not in Hell. That should please you, shouldn't it?"

In response, Nick could only begin to sob brokenly as he thought about Sara and his son. This wasn't fair. All he'd done is permit an angel, something that should have been a holy thing, a blessed thing, into his body so that he might carry out his promises. But deep inside, he knew allowing Lucifer, the Devil Himself, to use him could have only ended in damnation. All he wanted was to die and be reunited with his family; how could that possibly be too much to ask?

"I won't go," he insisted finally. "Even if I die here painfully, I'm not going with you. I'm not going with anyone."

"Suit yourself," Death said airily. "If you think the alternative is any better, be my guest."

"What do you mean?" Nick demanded, but Death had already gone. Resigned, Nick lay his cheek against the splintering floorboards, listening to the distant sound of sirens outside, followed by the pop-pop of gunshots. Tears slipped from the corners of his eyes, drifted over his nose, and fell between his bloodstained lips. He'd barely tasted the salt of them on his tongue when his vision began to blur. A ring of darkness crept in around his vision, narrowing steadily, like the end of a movie fading to black. He slowly closed his eyes on this sneaking black, Sara's name rolling off his tongue as the last of his consciousness fled from him.

When he opened his eyes again, he was laying in bed in a blue stream of moonlight. A wave of relief passed over him as the hope that it had all been a terrible dream flashed in his mind. He exhaled on a grateful cry and rose from the bed, calling out Sara's name as he raced into the nursery.

"Sara!" he cried, rounding the open doorway and entering the darkened room. The empty crib still stood in the center of the nursery, the blue blankets pulled up as though waiting for the baby that slept there to be laid over them. There was no sign of his wife, or his son.

Upon closer inspection, Nick found the crib to be covered in a layer of dust. All along the floor, leaves had flown in from the open windows. The toys along the walls and inside the crib were just as dirty, as thin films of dust and cobwebs made glass eyes matte and soft fur dingy.

Nick drew back from the empty crib, as the cold realisation that everything had truly happened and nothing would ever be a dream again settled in his stomach. He stumbled on the edge of the square throw rug and fell backwards. A bizarre sense of distortion went off in his right hand. Looking down at it, he realised it had passed through the floor. He stared in horror, wholly unable to process what had happened. Experimentally, he wiggled his fingers, heart beating fast and hard in his chest to discover he could discern the empty spaces between the floors of the house. He drew his hand from the hardwood planks with a violent jerk and cradled it against his chest. It appeared as whole as before and the sensation had gone.

So, this was the alternative Death had spoken of. Nick hadn't been inclined to believe in ghosts before Lucifer had come to him; even now he couldn't be sure if he still bought into it. However, it was impossible to deny that he was, indeed, among those lingering between life and death. Despite being able to feel the solid floor beneath him, he knew it was all an illusion, a lie manufactured by his brain to prevent his going mad.

Would he go mad? Nick looked down at his hand again, as though it would provide an answer. How long would he be able to last as a ghost? Why did he come back to the house? Could he leave? Foolishly, he wondered if strange beasts were lurking just beyond the front door, waiting for him to try and leave, like in that movie Sara loved so much.

As he got to his feet, he thought about all of the other ghost movies he'd watched, wondering if it would be possible to use them as guides. What did ghosts do? Haunt things? There was no one here to haunt. Find someone to help them complete unfinished business? To his knowledge, he didn't have anything like that. What if someone came to the house? Would he be compelled to chase them away, like some poltergeist? He had so many questions and no one available to provide them.

Feeling more lost than ever, Nick went over to the window and looked out on the quiet street. A few people walked past the house or to their cars, apparently oblivious to the spectre that watched them. He remained there even when the sun began to rise, turning the sky above a hazy shade of pink and purple.

"What do I do now?" he asked himself. "What the hell do I do now?"

As the sun peered over the horizon, its light normally so blinding, Nick bowed his head, unaware of the fact he'd faded away.


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter One

The first few weeks being dead proved to be some of the most difficult as Nick sought to understand his new half-existance. So far, no one had come to inspect the house and he was left in relative peace and quiet to test his limits. Fortunately, being a naturally emotionally-charged person, it didn't take him long to discover his moods affected what he could or could not do. He'd unnerved himself a few times when his frustration caused a number of pictures to fly from the wall and shatter across the floor. The entire ordeal proved to be a trying experiment, but what else had he to do?

For awhile, he'd considered trying to contact Death again, perhaps get some information off him. When that notion was reflected further upon, he realised it would probably just be best to try things on his own. He was a quick study, after all, and he didn't want to anger the man any more than he potentially already had.

Attempts to leave the house proved equally successful, which allowed him to roam the town at will. He did this a few times, more as an experiment to see if anyone could see him. So far, only animals seemed to be able to detect his presence, which wasn't very useful. More often than not, he returned home disappointed.

One afternoon, he sat by the bedroom window watching the neighborhood kids returning from school. On a whim, he telekinetically sent a small toy flying from the house to the sidewalk. It landed in front of a little girl, who stooped and picked up the toy. The delight in her face made Nick smile. However, when he tried again, this time with something slightly bigger, the pair of boys who found it were clever enough to look up at the house. For a second, Nick felt the urge to duck behind the curtains. When the boys only continued to stare at the house, seemingly unable to detect Nick's presence, Nick relaxed and watched them move along, the toy he'd thrown set down beside the front gate.

He wanted someone to notice him. The presence of another living being would be a great comfort and give him a sense of belonging again. After Sara's death, he'd more or less cut himself off from the rest of the world. He grew bitter, drank frequently, and spent nearly every night in tears, mourning for what had been taken from him. Some neighbors had tried to get him to open up, to properly grieve, but he'd closed them out as well. Before Lucifer, he'd been alone for months. When the angel inflicted those horrible visions on him, Nick remembered why he'd chosen to remain in seclusion: other people seemed to only exist to remind him of what he'd lost.

But now? He'd take it all back if he could. He wanted the company badly, but had no idea how to go about getting it. Perhaps if he moved out further, expanded his search radius, he could find someone who could see and talk to him. However, the failures he'd experienced so far discouraged him from that and he fell deeper into a burgeoning depression.

To take his mind off his loneliness, he resumed practicing his new skills. He wondered if all ghosts advanced as quickly as he seemed to. But then, not all ghosts once held an angel inside them. It was a strange opinion Nick had of Lucifer. On the one hand, he understood the angel's feelings for they largely reflected his own. But on the other hand, Nick felt he'd gone about resolving them the wrong way. He could remember having conversations with the angel during those rare quiet moments. Something like sympathy welled between them, though Lucifer was less understanding of Nick's loss. He held little sentiment when it came to love. Still, the angel listened to Nick when they talked, even if he didn't say much. Nick suspected there was some measure of gratitude the angel felt towards him for allowing him to take his body. He wasn't what the angel really wanted, but still, he'd been suitable enough to do what he needed to get to the right one.

But it wasn't always conversation and brief moments of peace. More often than not, it was pain, extreme pain, as Lucifer's powerful essence tore through Nick's body. Nick wanted to be worthy enough to hold the angel, but no matter how much he tried to will it to be so, he continued to fail those who'd counted on him. The blood - the demon blood, procured through ghastly means - had been the only thing holding his body together. The first time Lucifer had drunk it, Nick could remember his stomach churning. It was thick and tasted like molten ashes mixed with the pungent stench of sulfur. Sometimes, they would vomit, as Nick's body wasn't designed to handle such things. When that happened, Lucifer was forced to rest, which irritated the angel. He wanted the Winchester boy badly, wanted to take his rightful vessel and leave Nick's body.

As foolish and childish as it seemed, Nick couldn't help but feel resentment towards Sam. He had to watch as Lucifer fawned over him, praising him as the perfect being for his needs. Nick was dismissed, viewed as a temporary solution. And when his body began to decay and shows signs of severe wear and tear, Lucifer was more determined than ever to get Sam to say yes. He killed mercilessly during those times, recklessly exhausting himself and falling into deep recuperative sleeps that put many of his endeavors on hold.

Even with the pain and damage to his body, Nick saw things, amazing things, with Lucifer inside him than if he'd never agreed to house him. He witnessed gods, real gods, and the four Horsemen. All of these things from myths and legends were laid bare before him, vulnerable creatures that fell as easily as any human man. The blood of gods such as Ganesh, Mercury, Baldur, all of them, had been on his hands. It was both terrible and intoxicating. He might not have been able to deliver any killing blows to the one god that mattered, but he'd taken what he could get.

But then Lucifer had been forced to kill his own brother. Gabriel had been a wild card, according to what little Lucifer told Nick of him, abandoning the war in Heaven and making multiple lives for himself in the pagan pantheons. Nick had felt Lucifer's genuine despair at Gabriel's death, for he had viewed it as needless. Lucifer had great familial love inside him, though it had been twisted by a deep sense of betrayal. It was over family the two unlikely beings bonded. Love of another was lost on Lucifer, but the love of kith and kin had been a whole other matter.

Perched in the window, Nick reflected on the curious conversations he'd shared with the angel. Lucifer had approved of Nick's son's name: Michael. Lucifer had then remarked that it had been a shame his brother, the real Michael, had failed to protect the child. But then, he'd added, Michael had never been one for independent thought. If God hadn't told him to protect the boy, he wouldn't have bothered. The more Nick heard about the other angels, the more he felt he'd done the right thing in letting Lucifer in. At least one of them seemed to understand.

Oh, Nick knew Lucifer held no love for mankind. He'd heard him slam humanity multiple times, yet it never seemed to bother him. Perhaps because it had been the failure of humanity that caused Nick's loss and later denied him the justice he demanded. At the thought of the man who'd murdered his family, Nick's hands curled into tight fists. That man had gone free. They'd been able to catch him, but his overpriced lawyer had won the case. The state appointed lawyer Nick had been saddled with had been incompetent. Even with the mountain of evidence against the murderer, he'd still be set back into the world.

Nick got up swiftly and went downstairs. Near the door was a chest of drawers, an antique desk Sara had brought into the marriage. Within were all the documents pertaining to his family, including the newspaper clippings of the trial. With great concentration, Nick opened the drawer containing them and cast them onto the floor. He knelt above them, eyes searching the articles intensely. There. The one clear shot of the killer. He focused on the image, searing it into his memory.

The authorities had failed him. God had failed him. Even Lucifer had failed him. Well, if there was one advantage to being a ghost, this was it. He would take matters into his own hands, as he should have done in the beginning when he still lived. Only now, he could do as he pleased without consequence. The notion pleased him and, casting one more look at the man's face, vanished in a cloud of spectral dust.


	3. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Curtis Mayhew reached out and gave his TV a violent whack to its side, as though it would clear the illegal pornographic channel he'd stolen from his neighbor's cable. When it predictably did nothing, he leaned back in his recliner with a throaty belch and popped open another beer.

He'd just begun to distinguish the outline of a naked woman's body when the lights began to flicker. He glanced up at the ceiling light above him, cursed it briefly, then looked back down at the screen. When they blinked rapidly in and out again, he got up and stormed into the basement.

Plunking his beer bottle onto the washing machine, Curtis jerked opened the breaker box door and inspected the switches. "What the hell? There's nothing wrong with these," he muttered, narrowing his eyes. Suddenly, his beer flew from the washer and struck the concrete floor with such violence the glass was sent up towards the rafters. Curtis swore and dodged the flying shards, hands raised to protect his face. The naked lightbulb above him sputtered out and popped as well, its milky glass falling to meet the amber of the bottle's.

Curtis hurried to get back to the cellar stairs as more things began to fly at him from shelves. A wrench just missed his head as he dodged low and crawled up the creaking wooden steps on his hands and knees. "What the fuck is going on!" he cried as a screwdriver shot past his head and lodged itself into the stairwell wall. He'd just managed to reach the basement door when it flew open and a cold burst of wind spilled over Curtis's bent head.

He watched his breath form in front of him in tiny clouds, the hairs on his arms and neck rising. With terrified eyes, Curtis lifted his head to the open door and screamed. A static figure of a tall man loomed in the doorway, blocking out any and all light from the warmth of the upper levels. The man's eyes were hidden in the heavy shadows of his drawn brow, but Curtis could still feel the hatred burning inside them.

"What the hell do you want?! Who are you?!" Curtis sputtered. The man said nothing as he began to slowly descend into the basement. This forced Curtis back down the stairs and he repeated himself, the urgency in his voice growing greater and greater the closer he got to the bottom landing.

Finally backed into a corner by the silent, flickering figure, Curtis inhaled sharply when he saw the broken bits of the beer bottle and lightbulb rise from the ground. These shards shifted in the air, their jagged edges pointed directly at Curtis's chest. He opened his mouth to scream again when the glass shot out and embedded itself in his neck and sternum. Curtis's mouth filled with blood, his words lost in a froth of spit and bile.

The man stared at Curtis coldly. "This is no less than you deserve," he intoned, his voice like the grave. "For taking my family from me."

Curtis, clutching his throat and trying to extract the shards with shaking hands, gaped mutely at the figure. What family? Whose family? He yanked the biggest piece free and choked out, "Who the _fuck _are you?!"

In an eyeblink, the man was upon him, his face inches from Curtis's. His eyes burned, the blue of the irises as bold as ice. "Vengeance," he replied quietly, in a tone that matched the cold snap of his eyes. Curtis doubled over when he felt something deathly cold drive through his chest. Looking down, he saw the man's arm buried deep in his body. Then his heart lurched and his vision blacked out.

Nick stood over the toppled body of his family's murderer, his fist as red as when Lucifer had killed the Norse god, Baldur. He stared down at the bloodied, stupidly-gawping face of the man and wondered at the empty feeling that had settled in his chest. Was it not enough to have killed him? Had he not made him suffer enough?

Nick's chest heaved. How could he not be satisfied? The man who'd killed his wife, taken his son, and ruined his life was finally dead. Justice had been met, hadn't it? He could now go back to his home and continue existing as a memory. But it wasn't enough, he realised, as he crouched down and looked into the man's face. It wasn't enough to kill one murderer, to have his own pain avenged. There were hundreds, thousands, of people just like this one. Countless families torn apart and for what? A handful of cheap jewelry and maybe a wallet with twenty bucks in it? It wasn't right. Those killers had to answer for their crimes as well, and Nick was in a unique position to execute justice on behalf of those poor families. He'd never be caught, never be suspected. He was already dead. What could possibly get in his way? Nothing. Nothing at all.

A smile slowly crept across Nick's face as he rose. Yes. This would be his purpose now. He would seek out those who'd done to others as this man had done and he would make them hurt. He'd make them feel what their victims did, tenfold. He'd be a benevolent spirit, doling out justice the human system had failed to do.

Satisfied with his decision, Nick turned away from the man's body, flickering back to his house to begin hunting for the next one.

This was unusual. Most deaths could be predicted and a Reaper dispatched to the soul long before it happened. However, it would appear that Curtis Mayhew had met a most unfortunate, and unexpected, end.

The black-suited Reaper studied the body carefully. Curtis's soul stood beside him, still processing what had happened. The Reaper ignored him as he ranted about the man who'd killed him and how he'd make him pay. It wasn't the murder that bothered the Reaper, but the one who'd carried it out.

Ectoplasm coated the corpse's body where the glass had pierced it and a ring of it was outlined on the chest just above the heart. The Reaper reached out to flick some of this spectral goo from the body and brought it to his lips. His tongue flicked out to taste it; he grimaced. Vengeful spirit, and a powerful one at that. There was something of the celestial just on the edge of the ectoplasm, which puzzled the Reaper. Few humans were strong enough to contain an angel and those that could often went to the Light upon death. What had kept this particular former vessel chained to the physical plane? And why had it caused this man's death?

The Reaper stood and turned to Curtis. "Do you know the man who did this to you?" he asked calmly. Curtis rounded on the Reaper, exasperated.

"No! I already said it was some crazy fuck who broke into my house and made things fly and then he punched me through the chest and killed me! Haven't you been listening? Who the fuck are you, anyway? Why is everyone breaking into my fucking house today?!"

"I did not break in and I am not a man," the Reaper replied. "I am Eli. I'm here to bring your soul to its final destination."

"Where am I goin'?" Curtis asked, looking down at himself uneasily. Eli shrugged. "What, you don't know?"

"I do know," Eli said. "However, I'm not concerned with that. Come. The window to cross over is brief." He took Curtis's arm lightly and the basement faded from view. In a moment, they found themselves standing on the bank of a gray shore, equally gray waters spreading out before them.

"The fuck is this?" Curtis demanded, shaking Eli's hand off and moving away from him. He leaned over to peer into the murky water, his nose wrinkling in disgust. "The hell's up with this water?"

"It is the Styx," Eli explained. "I wouldn't suggest getting too close to the water. There are things in there that do not rest."

"Whatever the fuck that means," Curtis muttered, though he took the Reaper's advice and stepped further back onto the rocky shore. Eli withdrew a pocketwatch from his vest pocket and inspected it. Curtis side-eyed the antique fob, greed shining in his gaze. The Reaper glanced at him, snapping it closed when Curtis averted his eyes. The man kicked at the shore impatiently. "The hell we waitin' for?"

"Your ride," Eli replied quietly. "There." He pointed to the far end of the water where the foggy shape of a wherry was beginning to form. A cloaked figure stood at the rear, steadily guiding the narrow vessel towards the shore. Eli took a step forward when the wherry rocked gently closer. "Charon," he greeted politely. The hooded face of the Ferryman lifted with a solemn nod, then angled to look at Curtis. Eli gestured to the boat. "This is where we part ways, Curtis Mayhew. It's been a pleasure."

"Wait, where the hell you goin'?" Curtis demanded when the Reaper made to leave. "I ain't goin' with this guy!"

"But you must," Eli told him. "This is your destination."

"What do you mean? Where is this?"

"This is Hell, Curtis," Eli returned plainly. "By God's Law, you belong here. You have spent your life committing terrible crimes against your fellows; it is time for you to do penance."

Curtis gaped at the Reaper. "I ain't goin' to Hell! Get me outta here!"

"I'm sorry, but the only way you'll be leaving this shore is with Charon. Now, I really must be going," Eli offered Charon another nod and disappeared, the further protests of Curtis Mayhew fading out as well.

Eli manifested in the foyer of an elegant Victorian mansion and gestured gracefully with a hand, lighting the sconces around him. Through the amber glow of the lamps, Eli proceeded deeper into the house, his footsteps carrying him to a darkened study where a low fire burned. Positioned before the hearth was a wing-backed chair; resting along the arm was a pale hand, fingers curled casually around the knob of a walking cane.

"What can I do for you, Eli?" a cultured voice asked from the chair. Eli bent his head in respect before responding.

"I fear there is a former angelic vessel's spirit causing unscheduled deaths, sir. Correct me if I'm wrong, but hasn't the Morningstar been returned to his Cage?"

"He has. What of it?"

"I have reason to believe his previous vessel's soul is attempting to handle its own unfinished business."

"Has he only committed this single murder?"

"Yes."

"Then I wouldn't worry about it. There are a great many vengeful spirits out there, Eli. It is not up to us to govern them once they've refused our assistance."

"I understand, sir. However, might I be permitted to observe this one?"

The figure in the chair turned. Death looked out at his Reaper patiently, the hollows of his cheeks cast into deep relief by the firelight. "It is not up to us to govern those who have shunned us, Eli. I will not repeat myself again. You have other duties and there are those who are better equipped for obstinant spirits."

"You refer to the Psychopomps, sir?"

"I do. Should this particular spirit become a problem, I will address it then and only then. Until that time, I suggest you resume your true duties. The Apocalypse might be over, but souls will always need ushering. That is all." Death turned back towards the fire, his silence suggesting it was time for Eli to take his leave. He bowed graciously to his master and departed the study.

Nick leaned in close to the officer's shoulder, squinting to inspect the reports spread out on the desk. The officer gave another violent shiver and glanced at the thermostat. While he got up to adjust it, Nick shifted closer, eyes scanning the forms rapidly. There were a number of unsolved murders in the area - certainly far more than he would've originally imagined. He zeroed in on one describing a family of four: an unknown assailant had broken into their home and, upon finding the father armed with a baseball bat, had killed him and the eldest son, who'd come to defend his father. The mother had been left with two young daughters, one barely out of diapers.

Yes, he would start with this one. He scanned the descriptions given by the mother and older daughter, committing them to memory. He also took note of the family's address, feeling it prudent to see what he could glean from them until he could get a name.

Nick left the station with a thought, shifting between his house before reaching the right address. It was a small house, ideal for a family just starting to spread its wings. The porch was decorated tastefully with a female's obvious touch. As he mounted the stairs, he smiled at the white wicker swing swaying gently in the breeze at the far end of the porch. It seemed very cozy and Nick felt good the moment he passed through the front door.

The entryway was softly lit, the source being a pearl-colored lamp perched on a little table along the wall. A vase of early spring flowers lent a soothing aroma to the hall, which calmed Nick further as he continued through the house. A wam kitchen was positioned at the rear of the house, flanking a sitting room and connecting dining room. He could hear the faint sounds of the little girl playing in her room, as well as the soft footsteps of the mother as she moved between the bedrooms.

He climbed the stairs soundlessly, head turning this way and that to take in the multiple family photos framed on the walls. He felt a stab of melancholy when he thought of Sara and his son and how they'd never had the chance to build their own family gallery. He paused in front of a portrait of the mother holding a baby and smiling at the camera. He imagined Sara super-imposed over the woman's face. It prompted a sad smile and another forlorn moment, both quickly dispersed when he spied the mother walking along the hall at the top of the stairs.

She was a tall woman, taller than Sara, with a slender figure that had escaped the ravages of having given birth to three children. She appeared to be in her late thirties, her face unlined, and her short blonde hair as full as a teenager's. Her voice, when she spoke, was whisper-soft without being weak as she told her daughter it was almost time for her bath. Nick stood in the middle of the staircase, watching all of this with a captivated smile on his face. After a moment, the girl came out of her room swathed in a pink terrycloth bathrobe. As she crossed the space in front of the stairs, she slowed, then looked directly at Nick.

Nick froze, halfway between anxious and exhilarated that someone could see him without his trying first. She continued to stare at him curiously, appearing neither afraid nor eager to tell her mother what she saw. Experimentally, Nick lifted a finger to his lips. The girl smiled, gave him a small wave, and darted into the bathroom where her mother waited.

This was good. If the girl could see him, he might have an easier time getting the information required to find the man who'd killed her father and brother. She looked young still, perhaps between six and seven. Whatever she knew she'd have already told the police, but perhaps there had been things she'd kept to herself. Nick had to try.

He decided he would stay with them until he either discovered the killer's identity or if they simply couldn't help him. After being alone for so long, he craved the warmth of a loving family, to hear their laughter in his ears, and witness their smiles so that they might encourage his own. One such smile spread over his face, softening his features, as he listened to the banter between mother and daughter through the bathroom door.


End file.
